I’ve been in a funk. Does a decade count as a “funk?” Whatever, I’ve been feeling funkier than usual lately. I want to write. I love to write. I live to write. Yet, it’s the one thing on my To-Do list that never gets crossed out. Everyone says I should just write. Regardless of the mood or the topic. JUST WRITE. So here I am writing.
There’s this girl I follow on Instagram. She somewhat recently had a daughter, and she’s in that super cute stage of baby where they are growing into their features and no longer look like little opossums. That part of their life where they’re growing, but still need you. They’re learning to coo and laugh. I am obsessed with her in the most non-creepy way. It’s not even that she’s the most adorable baby in the world (although she’s pretty damn cute), she’s just the highlight of my highlights in my IG stories.
I watch her mom as she takes her daughter out of her Snoo in the morning, and can’t wait to do the same. Minus the Snoo, cuz that shit is $1,500+. I see cute little outfits and feel psychotic at the thought of buying a specific cheetah-print onesie with matching headband for fear that it may not be available when I finally have a kid of my own.
My favorite part is watching her sooth her crying baby. Whether it’s by giving her milk, or simply holding her. It makes me wonder if someone will ever need me like that. I’ll relish in knowing that I am the very key to my child’s content. And I feel really fucked up admitting this, but I imagine giving my child her bottle just 2 seconds longer than necessary, so I can see this currently imaginary human rely on me longer.
Is that crazy? Thoughts like this make me question my sanity. But this is what happens when you write just to write.